Page 29 of The Unlikely Heir

Of course, my ancestors weren’t governing anyone at the height of the British Empire. My ancestors were buried deep in coal mines in Yorkshine or stuck on production lines in the Manchester woolen mills, their hands scoured raw by the vicious chemicals.

That thought has me gulping two paracetamol tablets dry in the car as my driver heads towards Windsor Castle.

I’m not being asked to work double shifts in a mine. I simply have to make small talk with a bunch of dignitaries in a castle.

The Grand Reception Room in Windsor Castle always makes me feel like I’ve been transported into the pages of a history book or a museum exhibit. It’s impossible not to be impressed by the sheer magnitude and lavishness of the room.

But it’s also a reminder of the historical inequality in British society. I was elected promising to promote policies that make sure the wealth of our nation is shared by everyone, not just a lucky few.

Queen Katharine looks as regal as ever, wearing a deep-emerald dress.

I dip my head before greeting her. “Your Majesty.”

“Good evening, Oliver,” she replies.

Callum Prescott is next in the reception line. The dark tux he’s wearing contrasts with his light coloring, making him take-your-breath-away good-looking. Which is a positive thing. I get the feeling Callum will need every asset he can to win over the British public.

“Your Royal Highness,” I say.

“Prime Minister.” Callum gives me a small smile.

Our hands touch, and it’s exactly like our first handshake. It feels like all the nerves in my body have decided to migrate to my right hand, and I’m hyperaware of every last detail, like how smooth his palm is and the slide of our hands against each other.

I pull back, trying to keep the frown off my face.

What the hell? I have no idea why, for the second time, my body has decided to have a reaction to Callum Prescott.

When I release his hand, Callum’s got a tiny line between his eyebrows, marring his perfect face.

To cover my confusion, I quickly greet Prince Nicholas and Princess Amelia.

As I finish the reception line and start circulating the room, I can’t help my gaze flicking back to Callum. He’s got a polite smile plastered on his face as he shakes hands with everyone filing past, but there’s something stiff about the way he’s holding himself, some extra tension around his mouth, that wasn’t there when I first met him.

I blink when I realize I’m staring at him. I can’t spend my entire evening watching the Prince of Wales.

I quickly find myself drawn into a discussion with Joseph Otieno, the prime minister of Kenya, and Maali Walker, Australia’s prime minister, about the shortage of water their countries face.

After half an hour of mingling, it’s time to move into St George’s Hall for dinner.

A long banquet table has been set up, filling the cavernous space. The finest china awaits me as I sit, along with silver cutlery and George III crystal goblets. I’ve heard the palace staff uses rulers to ensure everything is spaced correctly.

I can’t help thinking about drinking milk as a kid out of my chipped favorite mug with green glaze, the one Nan got from a charity shop, coming home to triumphantly announce, “I got it for only fifty-nine p!”

Whoever planned the seating for this banquet obviously has a sadistic streak because Lionel Pearson sits opposite me. Lionel was the Chancellor of the Exchequer for the last Conservative government and is a strong candidate for the biggest prat on the planet. Although a few other past and present members of the Conservative Party might give him a run for his money.

“Prime Minister.” Lionel inclines his head in a lazy nod.

“Lionel,” I reply in a dry voice.

But before we can attempt small talk, the first notes of “God Save the Queen” ring through the hall.

Everyone obediently climbs to their feet.

A courtier holding a sword leads the procession, and the queen, Prince Callum, Prince Nicholas, and Princess Amelia follow at a dignified pace.

To my surprise, once Queen Katharine is seated, another courtier guides Callum to the seat next to Lionel.

Callum smooths his tux jacket as he sits down. “Good evening.”